|
Pine
Once, at dusk, from a summer train, I saw a burning car in a peachfuzzed cornfield. Two boys running away from it, laughing. In winter I saw that same car in a costume of snow sinking as if with the joy's weight. I found out this: there's no such thing as sin. Take last night, here in Festalemps: a white hair of lightning clove a pine clean in two. I held the man I'd stolen, as he held me. Equal thunder. Equal thievery. We were each other's hot money. We were each other's. In wads. Then we smelt black smouldering. Flesh. Not us. The pine. This morning we walked to where it had split & burnt. Ants were making chains of themselves plundering sneaking off with little lamps of resin. Since then it's been little lamps of resin walking out of his nostrils, little lamps of resin walking out of his ears & lips, little lamps of resin walking out of every hole in his lit body. |
RSS Feed
